A Little Christmas Magic
by hushedgreylily
Summary: Claire, Owen, and a little Christmas magic. Oneshot.


**A LITTLE CHRISTMAS MAGIC**

 **An unbelievably last minute Christmas piece - all Clawen, all canon.**

 **Think of this as my Christmas present to anyone who might like to read it!**

* * *

She checks her watch, running her hands exasperatedly through her hair. He promised, for once in his life, that he'd be on time. She should have known better.

It had been a very last minute thing, deciding to spend Christmas together, but after Karen's last minute announcement that she and Scott were taking the boys on a surprise family ski holiday to Brecken Ridge, in a last ditch attempt to keep their marriage afloat, Claire had found herself suddenly without a commitment on Christmas Day. She'd ended up having drinks with Owen and after one too many asking him if he could change his work shift at Henry Vilas Zoo and have dinner with her. She thinks she remembers him blushing slightly before telling her _of course,_ and she's pretty sure he guided her home shortly after that.

What Jurassic World and everything that had happened had made them was drinking partners. It had started the first night, after Karen and Scott and the boys had gone to bed, and she hadn't even been able to consider sleeping. She'd found herself in a bar, alone, and it wasn't until about gin and tonic number four Owen had sunk into the chair beside her, ordering a Scotch on the rocks.

And that's where it had gone from there – they drank themselves into the ground that night, but he staggeringly walked her up to her hotel room, letting her push her way through the door before throwing up violently into her sink. He'd held her hair back shakily and let her sob against him afterwards, whispering something into her ear she supposes must have been soothing. Her memories are shaky, but when she woke up in the morning Owen was sprawled out on the couch in her room. Their eyes were both bleary, their heads were both pounding, but they found themselves in the same bar, with the same plan the following night. And the night after, and the night after that, until it came to a time when everyone was leaving Costa Rica and _heading home_ was suddenly a thing they had to think about.

He'd followed her to Madison, because he had nothing but the clothes on his back and a bad drinking habit, and found himself a job there. They never spoke about it – they never spoke about anything, least of all the _incident_ , and she never dared ask him what had brought him here.

She's not sure if her reason for that's because she knows the answer far too well, and it's terrifying.

She got her own job in the area, and a little flat five minutes away from Karen's, because if she knew anything after everything that had happened, it was that she was going to be more present in the boy's lives. And living in Madison was different enough that for now, when she woke up on the cold, dreary mornings, she could pretend, if only for a second, that she belonged to quite a different life to the one that had haunted her dreams.

It has become some sort of unspoken agreement that she and Owen go out for drinks at least once a week, and sit on the bar stools and talk about nothing at all until the early hours of the morning – and both of them struggle into work the next days with searing hangovers and bloodshot eyes. So neither of them have been good for the alcohol problems they're both denying, to themselves and anyone that might ask, and they've drawn closer and closer together without ever really talking about anything, without ever really acknowledging it. So the moment Claire realised she was alone on Christmas Day, there was no one to even consider other than Owen to share the day with.

It had still taken a fair few drinks to ask him – she still had her pride, and she didn't want to even begin to acknowledge the importance he had gained in the last few months.

So here she is, slaving over seemingly infinite pots and pans – and he's not even here yet. She doesn't want to think about why she's going all out to sort a perfect Christmas dinner for the two of them, and why she suddenly feels a light flutter in her stomach that isn't dissimilar to nerves. He's just a friend, and he's just someone to spend the day with.

That's all.

When he comes barraging through the front door (he took the spare key to her place when she was away on a business weekend, and she hasn't been able to bring herself to ask him for it back yet) with a bottle of wine, she rolls her eyes.

"You're late." She hisses, wiping her brow and bending to push something into the oven.

He checks his watch. "Only ten minutes. I'm here now. Is there anything I can do?"

If anything, she looks more exasperated. "I've done it all now. I've been slaving over this since first thing this morning, I haven't stopped…" it's like suddenly the whole thing, the whole perfect domestic Christmas dinner sounds as ridiculous to her as it must seem to everyone else, and she feels the tears building in the back of her throat, because she was trying so hard to do something _normal_ , because everything's been anything but normal, ever since. "…I just wanted it all to be perfect, and now the turkey's dried out but I don't think the potatoes are done, and I had everything planned and it was all going to be ready at the same time and I-"

He takes a step towards her, catching her elbows in his, "Claire-"

"…and we were going to sit down, and do something that wasn't drinking for once, and it was going to be delicious, and you were going to-"

"Claire-"

"…and we were maybe going to talk about all the things we never talk about, because all we're doing is drinking, and we both know that's not healthy, and-"

"Claire, I-"

"…because as much as we don't talk about it, everything that happened did happen, and I-"

His lips crash against hers, and for a moment, she freezes. Because he tastes something like a distant memory, and every inch of him burns against her, because suddenly his arms are wrapped right around her and one of his hands is threading into her hair. And his tongue dances against her lips and she opens them without much coaxing, her eyes drifting closed.

The timer buzzing on the oven pulls her out of her reverie and she staggers backwards, distancing herself.

His eyes are lit with questions as she silences the shrill beeping.

"That shut you up." He half chuckles, and takes another step towards her. She puts her hands up, and they're shaking slightly. She reminds him, for a moment, of a caged animal.

"This can't be a good idea… look at me, I can't even make a Christmas dinner without having a meltdown – I've not been right, not since…" she sighs, because they both know exactly what she's talking about, "…I don't think we know what we're doing… you don't know… you don't have to stick by me, because of what happened… you _hated_ me, before everything, and I-"

He gives her a tiny half smile, taking another step towards her. "I never hated you. You drove me mad, sure, still do, half the time, but I never hated you…"

Her voice is almost inaudible. "You don't know what you're getting into…. You don't know me, not really, not me before… before everything… I'm not normal, not right now…" She wraps her arms around herself, and she's never looked so vulnerable.

"I know exactly what we're doing… it's been five and a half months now – maybe there's no going back, maybe we're always going to be these people… in which case, I think I know you better than anyone…" he puts a big warm hand over one of hers, above her elbow. "Maybe it's time we stopped dancing around one another…"

One of those tears finds its way rolling down her left cheek when she looks up at him. "But I'm a mess, Owen, you don't want-"

He gives her a dry, bitter laugh. "I can decide what I do and don't want, Claire… and what I do want's been you for longer than you realise…" his fingers start tracing invisible patterns on her skin, "…I wondered, even before our date…."

"I-"

He puts a finger up to her lips. She goes slightly cross eyed looking down at it and her cheeks flush slightly when she looks back up at him.

"I knew after I carried you home, you threw up everything you'd eaten, and wouldn't stop crying against me for hours…" he gives her that crooked smile that makes her heart do strange things in her chest. "Maybe it's taken a little Christmas magic to push me in the right direction… but it's always been the direction I was facing…"

The tiny little half smile on her lips is all he needs to pull his finger away and lean towards her again, slowly, this time, trying to gauge how far he can guide her. He smells like he tastes, and as her smile widens he lets his lips press gently, cautiously, against hers. She slides her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and all of a sudden his whole body's flush against hers, and she feels something ignite inside her she can hardly remember feeling. The warmth spreads as she leans back and rests her forehead against his.

"I knew after you followed me out to Wisconsin without a word." She whispers, closing her eyes. "And once I knew, I tried as hard as I could to forget…"

He smiles, pressing his lips to hers, briefly. "Forgetting doesn't really seem to work… maybe you were right, earlier. There are things we need to talk about, I think, and maybe without anything to drink… it's never going to go away, what happened, because we don't mention it…"

"Tomorrow." She breathes, snaking a hand up into his hair, "Today…"

He raises an eyebrow, but lets her meld against him again, her tongue dancing against his, biting lightly at his lips, and suddenly his hands are everywhere, because he's got a whole body he's only ever dreamed about to map out all of a sudden, and she's leaning against him like she wants him to do exactly that.

She's gasping, and he's pretty sure he heard the tiniest hint of a moan. He draws her even closer.

What tears them apart this time is the smoke alarm.

With smoke wafting out of the oven from the now singed prize turkey, they cough a little. She looks for a moment like she's not sure whether to burst into tears or laugh, but he turns the oven out with one hand and swats at the alarm as he keeps his other hand tight in hers, and she does neither and leans across to open a window.

The silence is heavy as he steps back towards her. "Next year, for turkey dinner, maybe?"

She gives him a tiny smile, but for a moment everything flashes through her eyes – the memories, the craving for some hint of normality, the fear.

He laces his fingers through hers and lets her lean against him. They've always been good at saying everything without any words.

"How about we walk over to mine, across the park, and we order a couple of cartons of takeout? We can come back and sort out your apartment of burnt food in the morning – and who says we should do Christmas normally? We've never done anything else normally…"

Her smile widens slightly, and when she nods she looks almost nervous. "That sounds perfect. I'll get my coat."

He muses, briefly, when she meets him at the doorway, that if anything Claire suits Madison winters better than Costa Rican summers – in a long black coat with a white hat and scarf and a tiny, excited smile on her face, she makes his heart speed up a little.

She holds his hand as they walk through the snow, and considers they might find normal one day.

 **FINIS**

 **Merry Christmas everyone! How about you think of a review as your Christmas present to me? :)**


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